


One Second Can Be a Lifetime

by lehulei



Series: The Longest Walk [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lehulei/pseuds/lehulei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imprisoned. Alone. About to lose his life.  Some would say their love was never meant to be.  But Draco would disagree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Draco's Soliloquy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [The Longest Walk](http://archiveofourown.org/works/432696). I'm just going to post all the chapters now as this story has been written in full. Hope you enjoy!

_She hates me_. That knife twisted in his heart. He sat in his usual spot at the table, facing the window of his cell, staring blankly outside at the autumn day. His morose thoughts were not new; his loss of what might have been a daily companion in this lonely existence. The whirling thoughts a mass of confusion that would continue indefinitely in his seemingly endless days of hell.

He was suddenly angry, mad at the circumstances, mad at the man who held him captive but mad mainly at his own inability to do something about it. With a growl of frustration, he picked up a discarded tea cup and threw it with heated force at the window. It shattered against an invisible barrier before it actually reached the window itself. The pieces fell to the wooden floor with soft crystal sounds and the anger left as swiftly as it had come. He put his head in his hands, his long fingers ran across his scalp, pulling at his fine pale hair. Hopelessness swept over him.

Heavy footsteps were heard outside his door. “Oi!” a coarse voice made its way through the heavy wood. “Shut it in there! Do I got to tell me master that you’s in need of remindin’ of yer place?” A vicious slap on the door. “Do I?” The man in the room didn’t answer, didn’t even move. He knew from previous experience that it would make things worse. There was a pause outside and then a mumbled “sodding git” before footsteps moved away. 

It had been days, weeks, months of this. He was slowly going insane and he didn’t know if he even wanted to try stopping it from happening anymore. A beautiful face formed in his mind’s eye: heart-shaped, huge caramel eyes and soft pink lips. Yes, _she_ was the reason—is the reason—he continued to hang on. Because if there was any chance of getting out of this unbearable situation, any way he could come out of this alive, she would be the one who he’d go to first. No matter what she may think of him, no matter where she may be now, he just had to know she was safe, that she still existed in this world where everything had turned upside down.

 

 

When he’d first met her, all those years after Hogwarts, he’d been taken aback by his attraction to this woman who he had thought of during his entire childhood as a thorn in his side with her know-it-all ways and her solid belief in goodness in the world. He had not really thought of her after Hogwarts and now here she was, casually setting up house in his mind after a chance encounter in her book shop. Her prim outfit and polite manner hadn’t fooled him. He’d felt that zing, that electricity between them. But he’d tried to forget her because she wasn’t really his type and she was part of that trio who he had never really been on good terms with. He had thrown himself into his work, visited friends, gone out to events, but none of that had worked. She was always at the fringe of his thoughts. He would be standing there and suddenly catch the scent of cinnamon-vanilla and look around, expecting to see her. He would wake up in the middle of the night, hot and aching, almost tasting her, feeling the ghost sensations of her touch on his body.

Then one day he had gone back to her, quite on impulse, but unable to stand this disturbing longing another moment. He knew that if he were to let himself think about it anymore, he’d never do it. He’d stepped through the door to her bookshop and was instantly arrested by the sight of her sitting at the counter, her russet-colored hair loosely framing her face. Her eyes, when she’d glanced up, held a mysterious fire that he wanted to consume him. The air had been sucked out of him and he moved slowly to where she sat. The apprehension he felt in asking her out to tea was so great that when she accepted, he couldn’t stop the relief from showing on his face.

Over tea, he became enchanted with her. She was still smart and smart-mouthed, but now that he was finally taking the time to get to know her without his previous prejudice against muggleborns or his childhood jealousy of Potter that had faded over time, he was able to see that the slightly awkward girl he had known had grown into a woman who was sure of herself and what she wanted, having decided to become a bookseller after not being able to stand being in the public eye after the Great War. He also found that the simplest actions she did, like tuck her hair behind her ears or chew absently on her bottom lip, caught his eyes, fascinated him, made him lose his trail of thoughts. It was startling and a bit embarrassing.

The next night, they went to dinner together and he felt something warm take root in his heart. It wasn’t until after dinner, when she had left him at her doorstep, alone and thrumming with unfulfilled anticipation, that he had seen, in a blinding epiphany, that he had fallen unexpectedly in love with her and that he didn’t want to end the night without at least giving her some idea of it. He hadn’t planned on going any further than saying or indicating something, out of respect for her—it had only been one date for Merlin’s sake—but then she’d opened the door and abruptly what had been warm became hot, what had been want became need and he suddenly had to touch her or die. Their bodies came together with almost a frantic passion, his lips finding, pressing against hers, her tongue seeking and finding entry between his lips. They were through the door and up against it before he gained enough control to make sure she wanted the same thing as him. He could feel himself about to go off like a boy having his first go. Her whispered _yes_ had led to her bed where her small eager hands had pushed his jacket off, gotten under his shirt and to the zipper of his pants before he had lain her on her soft mattress. He had never felt the sense of wonder and fire that he felt with her. There was more than just their bodies involved and while he wasn’t sure if she was fully aware of it, he was and he was never going to let her go.

He never did end up telling her he loved her that night, afraid to lay himself open for rejection when they had just begun. He wanted to build something between them first, thinking that all those times of badgering and pushing her in their formative years might have stuck to her and built some hidden nest of resentment to him. Though, if he looked at it objectively, in his more confident moments, she never acted as if this resentment was there. But still he hesitated.

Then one day some weeks after their relationship started, he went to get lunch by himself, unable to see Hermione during the workday so that their connection wasn’t exposed to discriminating eyes. He went to a small café in Diagon Alley only to find the object of his affections sitting in a cozy corner with a dark-haired bloke whose back was facing the door. Her face was animated as she leaned forward talking to this man and, from what he could see with his gradually increasing red-hazed vision of anger, she was holding onto the git’s hand.

She glanced up at the sound of the door closing and her eyes widened in surprise and, in his escalating rage he saw guilt. Not knowing what exactly she was seeing in his silver eyes and not wanting to stay a moment longer in that blasted shop, he turned sharply on his heel, wrenching the door open and stepped back out into the sun. He walked swiftly to the main alleyway, brushing aside the other witches and wizards making their way through the street, intent on getting away from her. “Draco!” her voice cried out. What the hell was she doing? Still supremely pissed off but feeling an instinctual sense of needing to protect their secret, he turned and grabbed the small woman’s wrist as she came up behind him. He muttered a concealment charm as he pulled her down a side alley and into a shadowed doorway, not easily seen from the street. 

He looked down at her with a hooded gaze, working to keep his broiling emotions from showing in his eyes. Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep them out of his voice. “What were you doing with him? Is this what you do when you’re not with me? You see other guys?” In the back of his mind, a much calmer and collected part of him noted that Draco was losing his cool over something that probably was nothing, taking into account that this was _Hermione_ he was talking to, but still he was unable to stop his unreasonable anger. 

She stared at him disbelievingly, hurt evident in her eyes. “Draco,” she said softly, putting her hand on his arm, taking encouragement from the fact that he didn’t shrug her off. “Draco, that was Harry. Harry Potter. My best friend. Who I see as more of my brother.” 

She was looking at him, with such sincerity in her eyes that Draco started to feel a bit like an ass. He took a deep breath and pulled her closer to him, resting his chin on top of her hair. “I’m sorry. I just saw you with this other guy, laughing and touching him and I…lost it. I’ve never done that before but,” he brought his head down so that his mouth touched her ear, “I love you. You’re the only one I’ve ever felt this way for before. You bring light and happiness into my life that I didn’t even realize was missing and I just can’t share you.”

She moved her head so that her eyes were looking up into his, her mouth a breath away from his. “What?” she whispered, her eyes shining with wonder. 

His mouth formed a small smirk. “You heard me, Granger.”

An inner light flared in her brown eyes as she brought her arms around his neck, pulling his head down to hers so that she could kiss him, whispering breathlessly between kisses, her own love for him.

Unfortunately for the loving couple, a dark shadow passing through the alley went unnoticed. But their words and declarations did not escape this malevolent figure, whose mind turned and twisted, looking for ways to use this to his advantage.

 

 

There would be moments he’d look at her, when she was laughing or when she was sleeping next to him, her dark curls spread over the pillow, and he’d know that this, this feeling inside, this love they shared, would last beyond this lifetime. Even if they were never to marry on paper, she was his, his mate for life.

But Draco did plan on making this dream an actuality. He knew his parents would not approve and could even disown him but he didn’t care. He wanted to be with her all the time and share life’s experiences, have children with her, watch time work its own magic on her features. His only hesitation was how her own friends would react, knowing that their Golden Girl was marrying the Dark Prince. He knew Hermione put value into their friendship and he didn’t want to do something that would bring her pain.

Looking back on it now, he thought maybe he should have somehow set his life up to avert the disastrous consequences that ended up coming about but how was he to know that someone would find out about his love for Hermione and think to use that against the powerful Malfoy family? The Dark Lord had been dead for years and the last Death Eaters collected up by Potter and the other Aurors in a short time following the Last Battle. 

And so, in their naivety, with some regained innocence that had been lost when they were so young, Draco and Hermione soaked in their adoration for each other. And when he proposed and she accepted, the warmth he felt seemed to heal part of his tattered soul. So swept up in the moment, so filled with a sense of invincibility that only the youth and the desperately in love have, Draco went to his parents’ home to slay the dragons for his lady only to be met by someone he least expected.

“Ah, young Draco. So good to see you here, just as I was getting reacquainted with your parents, my close friends.” This was said in pleasant tone, though the expression that went with it was anything but. The dark wizard gestured for Draco to join Narcissa and Lucius on the elegant couch of the sitting room, his wand trained on them to ensure no sudden moves.

Draco felt cold. This wizard had been with the Dark Lord, Voldemort, when he was residing at the Malfoy Manor and even as a boy entrenched in his family’s traditions of darkness, he could sense that there was something particularly off about this fellow, something not quite sane. Maybe it was the whispered threats or the harsh and sudden blows that came at the least expected times from the shadows, but Draco had harbored a fear against this man, one that at times eclipsed even his fear of Voldemort, who never touched him. He did not know what the man was doing here but just seeing Dolohov in his childhood home made him feel as if he was again that helpless young man, that if he were to say anything against him or the master he had served would mean instant pain for him and his family.

Draco moved mechanically, slowly to where his parents sat. His eyes stayed on the large figure standing in the middle of the room. As he sat, Dolohov said something that caused Draco’s blood to freeze and his heart almost close down. “A shame you couldn’t bring your beautiful Mudblood, Draco. What was her name again?” Dolohov tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Oh right-o. Hermione. Potter’s close friend and, dare I say, erstwhile lover?” Draco’s eyes burned and his muscles clenched, a gut reaction to the man’s taunts before his swift thoughts coalesced into a crystal-clear realization that this man knew of Hermione somehow and that Draco’s first duty was to protect her. He forced himself to relax and stare curiously at the man, as if what he had just said didn’t cut him to the quick. Unfortunately, the only person he had ever lost his famed cool demeanor over was the one woman who Dolohov picked out. And it showed.

“Tsk, tsk, Draco,” Dolohov moved his wand in a lecturing manner. “Don’t think I don’t know about her. I’ve seen the two of you together.” 

“What? Oh, that. I was just playing around with her. She’d decided to ‘walk on the wild side’ for a night and I obliged her. I’m surprised you read anything more into it.” Draco strove for his previous sardonic demeanor that had gotten him through his school years and the first years of rebuilding after the War. He crossed his ankle over his knee and leaned back into the couch, assuming as much of a bored appearance as he could with a steady wand pointed at him.

Dolohov gave him a knowing half-smile. “Let’s hope that that’s all it was, Draco Malfoy. Because I think she would come quite in handy with what I have in mind for the three of you.” With that vague threat in the air, Draco swore to himself that he would keep Hermione safe, even if it meant denying any connection, every moment spent together, every whisper of devotion, any heated touch. Even if it mean denying the woman who was his own heart.


	2. The Value of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco had walked into his parents’ house with a bright future vision before him only to be met with shattered hopes and ruined dreams.

Draco had walked into his parents’ house with a bright future vision before him only to be met with shattered hopes and ruined dreams. Dolohov had left the family in the sitting room, with their wands confiscated and the door magically sealed. His mother hadn’t moved from the couch since Draco arrived, her golden-white hair hanging listlessly around her face as she slumped against the back of the couch, eyes closed, mouth tight. Lucius had gotten up quietly and moved to the fireplace, leaning his hands against the mantel to stare blankly at the charred wood and cinders from the previous day’s fire. Draco seemed to be the only one who hadn’t sunk into apathy. As soon as Dolohov had left, he’d jumped up from where he was sitting, strode to the door and tried to force it open, only to discover that it was sealed. He had tried the windows as well and even looked up the chimney only to find those avenues similarly magically blocked. 

“Draco,” his father spoke, his voice quiet and tired. “Sit down. I should explain a few things.” Draco looked at his father’s impassive face, the leaner yet still aristocratic face that Draco saw glimpses of when looking at himself in the mirror. He sat in an armchair across a marble coffee table from his parents on the couch. His father took a deep breath and told Draco of how Dolohov had approached Narcissa and Lucius a day or two before through a letter to tell them that Draco was involved with Hermione Granger, in an effort to blackmail them: 25 million galleons for Dolohov’s silence. Lucius had told him that that would take some time to get together as not all his assets were in ready cash. Dolohov hadn’t liked that and had arrived just before Draco, with a plan to somehow extract that money from the Malfoy coffers. It seemed that Draco had unwittingly provided more leverage against Lucius by arriving at the wrong moment. For the moment, the Malfoy fortune belonged to Lucius alone and when he died, it would go to Draco. Lucius felt that Dolohov had a plan to somehow turn that money over to himself. He just didn’t know what the plan exactly was. Lucius commented that Dolohov had become more insane than he was 10 years ago and would likely not hesitate to kill one of them.

Draco felt the weight of hopelessness settle over him. He sat there with his head bent, the palms of his hands covering his eyes as his elbows rested on his knees. His father had lapsed into a solid silence, looking at his clasped hands in front of him. Narcissa was still in the same position she’d been since Dolohov left. The sun had set long ago. It was past midnight so Draco eventually succumbed and fell into a sleep full of childhood nightmares.

He awoke when sunlight began to steal its way into the room. He sprang awake, disoriented but with the feeling that he needed to be on his guard. His eyes swept the room, only now registering that it was his parents’ sitting room, his gaze resting on the still forms of his parents. Lucius had settled against the couch, his arms protectively around Narcissa, both sleeping with a frown on their already careworn features. There was movement outside and Draco nudged his father with his foot. Lucius came awake and gently shook his wife awake. She reluctantly opened her eyes and smoothed back her hair, her posture settling into the stiff and proud Malfoy bearing. Dolohov entered, his black hair swept back from his features, his equally black eyes taking in the family with an expression not unlike that of a pleased cat with its cornered prey. “Lucius. Come with me,” Dolohov pointed his wand at Lucius who looked mutinous and then suddenly had a blank look on his face as he stood up and followed Dolohov out the door. _The Imperio Curse._ Draco looked at his mother, her face had gone white, her eyes staring at the door.

Draco stood up and paced the room, hating this feeling of helplessness, partly because of the fact that it did not only stem from this present experience but from when he was a teenager, out-of-depth with the very adult machinations happening right in his own home. The door opened again, interrupting his steps. A small green elf with a flowery tea towel on her head came in with a tray of breakfast foods. “Mimsy,” his mother greeted her softly, a shadow of a smile showing. Draco stared at the elf as she placed the tray on the coffee table and bowed her way out of the room. _Of course, the house elves!_

He scrabbled a few pieces of parchment and a quill together from the small writing desk in the corner, jotting down two notes hurriedly, not knowing how long he had before this opportunity was lost. The first note he penned to the Head Auror, Harry Potter, in hopes that Harry would be able to come help his family before any real damage was done, to him or to the woman he was now writing the hardest words to get out. _“Hermione, I don’t want to marry you or be with you. Don’t try to contact me. Don’t try to find me. I don’t everwant to hear from you again.”_ He knew that he would have to say something that would get her to cut the ties completely from him instead of trying to handle or do something to salvage their relationship. He didn’t want her going anywhere near where Dolohov or one of his underlings would pick her up. It would be better this way, that she thought the worst of him and went a totally separate path. Though he knew he didn’t mean them, just knowing that these words were going to be read by her and rip her apart, he felt pain in his own heart. But better her alive and able to heal from his emotional blow than dead and unable to feel anything at all.

“Mimsy,” he summoned the elf. With a _CRACK!_ the house elf appeared in front of him. Narcissa gave a start, and whispered his name anxiously. He ignored her and gave the elf instructions to deliver the notes. The elf bowed and with another loud _CRACK!_ disappeared from the room.

He could feel his mother’s worried gaze on him as he sat back in the armchair he had slept in, too caught up in the only probable grievous outcome of his letter to Hermione. The door to the sitting room abruptly slammed open and a large brute of a man ran into the room, his eyes searching the space. Draco and Narcissa jumped up and Draco tried to make his way around the coffee table to be nearer to his mother. The man moved quickly for his size and snatched Narcissa’s arm, bringing her body up against his, his large arm around her chest, his other pinning her own arms between his body and hers. She gave a half-scream, cut off with the pressure of a cold blade against her white throat. Her eyes darkened in fear and focused blindly on Draco who stood there, frozen, not wanting to move if it would set Dolohov’s minion off. “Wot was de crackin’ noise? Wot was yous doin’ in here?” the man grunted.

“House elf,” his mother gasped out. 

“Git it back here!” The hand close to her throat jerked and Narcissa cried out in pain. Bright red drops appeared on her pale skin. Draco made an involuntary movement towards them then checked himself. His own face had paled.

“Mimsy!” Draco called. “Mimsy, get back to the manor right now!” A _CRACK!_ answered him and the house elf appeared in the middle of the tense tableau. 

“Master? Mimsy only able to deliver one note—“ the elf was cut off as the big man grabbed at her with a roar, throwing Narcissa onto the couch. Draco moved to stop him but was thrown to the side with a swift hit to his face. He crashed to the floor in a daze as there was a shriek from the house elf and a sickening crunch as the minion snapped her neck and threw her to the side. Narcissa cried on the couch, her face hidden behind her hands.

“You bet me master be hearin’ ‘bout this,” the man sneered as he walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Draco got up from the floor and moved to where his mother laid on the couch. He couldn’t see her face as her hands were still there but he slowly sat on the edge of the seat and touched her shoulder. She didn’t show any reaction to his touch. His eyes moved to the small motionless form near the wall, and he bowed his own head. While he didn’t hold the house elves in any particular affection, his mother did and for that he felt grief.

Out of the corner of his eye, just under the coffee table he spotted a folded sheet of paper. Bending down, he picked it up and opened it and closed his eyes once he realized which note it was that Mimsy had been able to deliver. The note he held in his hand was for Harry. He crumpled the paper in his fist, stuffing it into his pocket and put his head in his hands. His heart hurt and he felt nauseated. _She is going to hate me._

They stayed like that for some time, the shadows creeping in around them, until the door opened once more and Dolohov stepped in, this time looking not so pleased. “I have taken the liberty to, shall we say, exterminate the rest of the helpful house elves,” he said without preamble. “Now,” he pointed his wand at Draco, “who did you send a note to?” Draco stared at him, his mouth set in a firm stubborn line, his eyes cold, determined to give nothing away. Dolohov sighed and shot a look heavenward ( _As if God would take the bastard’s prayers into account,_ Draco thought sourly) then made a snapping motion with his wand. _“Legilimens!”_

Draco, in the split second between the wand motion and the spell had prepared himself for an onslaught of occulemency. Dark wizards tended to go with the overt spell more often than not. The wizard encountered the blank slipperiness of Draco’s mind and he could feel Dolohov trying to get around it. There was no bloody way he would be giving out the name or face or hint of _her_ and brought Harry’s face and note to the forefront, locking away anything to do with Hermione into a corner of his mind. The pressure eased and Dolohov mumbled Potter’s name, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

“Well, I guess we will need to take a trip then, Malfoys.” With another wave of his wand and a muttered spell, ropes appeared out of thin air and snaked around both Narcissa’s and Draco’s bodies, binding their arms and legs while a rag appeared and tightened around their mouths. “Parsons, Rowle, come. Please pick up Mrs. Malfoy and her son and I’ll collect Lucius. Meet at the portkey in 5 minutes.” The big dark man from earlier entered in with a fair-haired, slightly shorter version of him and both grabbed the two of them, bringing them out of the room. Draco wondered why they didn’t just use magic.

The portkey, a tattered baseball cap, was in the front hall sitting on the entrance table. The two grunts and Dolohov met there, each with a Malfoy, and Draco felt the normal tug on his middle as they were all transported. From his angle, bouncing on the shoulder of the dark-haired minion, he could sense they were outside in what looked like a forest, the tall trees closing in around them, the men stomping over dead leaves and snow, the brisk air hitting Draco’s face. The group stopped and Draco could hear a door creaking open. They were brought inside and each Malfoy deposited in their own small room, the door being magically sealed shut behind them by Dolohov.

As soon as the binds fell away from Draco, he went to the door and shook it, giving a growl of frustration when he found it to be sealed again. He turned around and surveyed the room. It was about the size of his closet of his own flat, a mattress on a metal frame with a thin sheet covering it made up the bed to one side with a rickety nightstand next to it. The wall opposite had a small bare window looking out at the winter evening, a solidly built wooden table and plain chair situated in front. He moved to the window to inspect it and came across a magical field that stopped him from actually reaching the window and brought a tingle to the palms of his hands as he pressed against it. He left his hands on the field a moment more, his mind numb at this point, despair washing over him. He did not know how they were going to get out of this and if they would survive. His note hadn’t made it to Harry and Hermione would be too shattered and then too furious to have anything to do with Draco or his family. He at least hoped she would be too furious, his passionate girl, and not sink into depths of depression that she could not come out of.

Moving to the excuse of a bed, he laid down and placed his arms over his eyes, too tired to think of doing anything else. and dreamed of what could have been, what now seemed too far out of his reach to ever have.

 

 

The days had stretched into endless weeks and months. Draco was never too sure how much time had passed. On the wall near his bed, he had started to scratch marks off as each day had passed but like anything else he had done to overcome such an impossible situation, he failed in doing it. He had gotten up to 21 days before it stopped mattering to him.

In the beginning weeks, Draco had routinely tried to get through the door or the magical barrier surrounding the small space. At one point, he’d thrown the poorly built nightstand at the door with all his might and it had broken to pieces as it smashed against the door. The dark-haired minion, Parsons, had banged on Draco’s door telling him to quiet down. Draco had yelled insults in return about Parsons’ upbringing and family. This had prompted Parsons to yank the door open, steaming mad, fists first. 

Draco welcomed him, wanting to hurt _someone_ for the trial he and his family were enduring. Parsons had gotten in a few good blows including his ribs and right eye but Draco, though not as heavily built, got in a few of his own, including breaking Parsons’ nose. The fight had been broken up by Dolohov who’d whipped out his wand and thrown Parsons and Draco apart. Dolohov had seemed more amused than angry and thrown Draco a bucket of water and a rag to clean himself up before sealing him back in. Draco had taken some time to recover from that as he wasn’t able to use magic to heal himself and Dolohov certainly wasn’t offering.

One horrid night, he awakened in the dead of the night to the sound of a woman screaming. He came out of as much of a solid sleep as he could manage on the uncomfortable bed, scrambling around to find his wand, only to recall himself to where he was, not remembering what had woken him up. Then the screaming continued. _Mother!_ Draco moved to the door, heedless of the previous results of him doing so, and threw himself against it, trying to force it open. “Open this door!” he shouted, banging on the door with both his fists. “YOU BASTARDS! _OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR!_ ” He was enraged. His mother had never been the strongest person and since the end of the war she had seemed to become even more delicate and withdrawn, involved in a private world that his father or Draco weren’t invited to. For these _beasts_ to do anything to her was more than Draco could put up with. With another roar, he threw his shoulder against the door and it banged open with a suddenness that had Draco tripping into the darkened hallway. 

He saw that the only other door was directly across from his and the door was already wide open. She was still screaming. He ran into the room to find Parsons’ dark figure grabbing at his mother’s slim white shoulders, her nightgown having been ripped at the collar, the brute’s grunts audible from the doorway . Draco saw red and launched himself at the man, bringing him down to the floor. He vaguely noted his mother scrambling to the other side of the room. Though Draco had had barely enough food to survive on, had barely slept, the strength flowing through him now was that of a man possessed, coming from some inner pool of love for his family that he had not really known to exist. His hands were around Parsons’ throat and he was squeezing and banging the older man’s head against the floor repeatedly, lost in a dark place that Draco had had glimpses of as a younger man but had always danced around, never entering. Until now.

A blast threw Draco off of Parsons and slammed him against one of the walls, knocking the breath out of him and he slid to the floor in a heap. He dimly registered Dolohov’s tall form in the doorway before slipping into unconsciousness.


	3. Common Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking in a couple of deep breaths he was able to gain some sense of control. He dropped his hands to his knees, focusing his eyes on the wall past his father’s shoulder. Lucius remained quiet, silenced by his son’s fierce reaction.

Gradually Draco came to, his hazy vision taking in the surprisingly concerned look in his father’s eyes as he wiped a cold wet rag across his son’s forehead. When the older man realized that Draco was conscious again, his features slipped into the impassive expression that Draco was more familiar with and moved the rag off of Draco’s head. The young man gingerly tried getting up, his father’s hand coming to his shoulder and firmly pushing him back down. “Lie still, son,” Lucius directed. “You were out cold with the spell Dolohov used and need to take it easy.”

Draco didn’t acknowledge him but did move back into a lying position. He closed his eyes, trying to recall the events prior to him passing out. The knowledge came back to him in a rush that had him snapping his eyes open and again trying to get up before a pain in his side left him gasping. “Draco!” Lucius admonished, helping his son rest against the wall. “Your mother is fine. She is resting now.” He indicated the slight, still form on the bed next to where Draco was propped up. They were in her room it seemed, the door closed, the moonlight faintly reaching through the small window. Draco’s eyes moved from the motionless shape to meet his father’s eyes in the dark, asking an unspoken question, his breath a little labored still from his earlier movements.

“I think Dolohov is involved in some ‘reorganization’ at the moment. The magical barriers in our cells were to hold against anything, yet you somehow broke through them to get to your mother.” The look in his eyes was the closest to being proud that Draco had seen in a long time. “He also wasn’t too pleased with Parsons’ behavior. I believe he may even be finishing the job you started. Merlin knows I would have,” he growled. Again his eyes moved back to Narcissa sleeping on the bed. “Although, I think that Dolohov felt that Parsons was sullying something that he was saving for himself.” Lucius’ voice darkened, his pale hand resting on his knee curling into a fist.

“Father, what are you doing here?” Draco had caught his breath now. This was the first time he had seen his father in some months, ever since Dolohov took him from the sitting room at the manor. Lucius looked back at his son, his mouth moving into a faint reflection of the Malfoy sneer. 

“Dolohov is strengthening the enchantments around the cells. He’s put triple spells on the room at the present. You can’t even touch the door or window without singing yourself.” He held up his cloak as an example, one corner of it looking as if it had been burned away. “Being stripped of my wand at the end of the War hasn’t done us any good. Look how low we’ve been brought: our family fortune being stolen by some insane mongrel, your mother—a shell of herself, you—involved with a mudblood.” 

Draco immediately made a motion of protest, not caring that he caused his side to burn in doing so. “Father, I won’t have you speak of her that way!” His silver-gray eyes darkened as he met and held his father’s gaze, the corners of his mouth tightened, turning white, his blond locks sticking to his forehead in sweat and yet, though he was nowhere near the polished Draco he once was and given the fact that he was the younger of the two, the older man looked away first, backing down, giving way. “She is the reason I exist,” Draco said softly yet vehemently, “The only reason I haven’t gone mad while I’m locked in a room day in and day out, not knowing what goes on outside those four walls, not knowing what my future holds. I _will not_ have you speak of her as if she were second-class or less than you. She was— _is_ the brightest, warmest, most real person in my life. I would give up my soul if it meant keeping her alive. So do not _ever_ put your prejudiced views on her. I won’t stand for it.” 

When he finished, he was breathing heavily, his hands were shaking with – emotion, hunger, sleep deprivation, he wasn’t too sure – as he brought them up to cover his face. His eyes burned with tears, a sensation he was unfamiliar with but recognized. He refused to show weakness at this time but was unable to stop himself. The reality of the situation always present for him but more heavy and weighty at this time. Seeing his father had tripped something in him, something that had been shaken loose when he saw his mother almost getting violated.

Taking in a couple of deep breaths he was able to gain some sense of control. He dropped his hands to his knees, focusing his eyes on the wall past his father’s shoulder. Lucius remained quiet, silenced by his son’s fierce reaction. After some minutes, he cleared his throat and hesitantly apologized. Draco’s gaze snapped to his father’s, the mirror images confronting each other as if for the first time. “I—I know I don’t say this or show much of anything, especially in more recent years, but—“ Lucius paused, his eyes turning back to his wife’s figure, “I do— _care_ for you and your mother. So I can…accept the idea of you with a muggleborn but I cannot say that I approve of it. For the time being, even that doesn’t matter to me so much as getting us out of this unbearable situation alive.” 

Draco knew he was staring at his father, but this admission was shocking. His father had never been one to express affection and after the Dark Lord’s fall and his deprivation of his wand, he had become even colder than before. Lucius glanced at his son, taking in his expression and his face softened. “I’ve had some time to think,” he stated simply before his face darkened as he recalled the past several months. “I’ve been under the Imperio Curse from Dolohov every day, putting on a front for the wizarding world; excusing yours and Narcissa’s absences; transferring our fortune, going through all the bureaucracy, spells and legal sidechecks to have it go to Dolohov; listened to Dolohov’s insane plans to put together a new uprising of Dark wizards using the power that comes with wealth—all while I’ve been relegated to a small corner of my own mind, unable to control my actions, knowing you and your mother are in danger of being killed off should I do something against his wishes.” His gaze had moved to the window and the night sky beyond, his voice continued in a whisper, “It’s almost like having the Dark Lord again but this time…I’m without my firm belief in the rightness of the cause. There is no promise of safety or power for my family. There’s nothing. It’s maddening.” His eyes closed and his head bowed.

Draco took in his father’s words. It was the most that this man, who had been Draco’s idol as a child, then someone to fear as he grew older and finally a man he regarded with pity and not a little resentment, had ever revealed of himself. Slowly, the younger man leaned forward and placed a solid hand on his father’s shoulder. Lucius’ head lifted and their gazes met, for once both able to understand each other as men. 

That was the last time Draco saw his father before Dolohov killed him.


	4. Escape

The quiet of the cell was starting to get to him. After having vented his anger out on the teacup, he realized that he probably wouldn’t be getting another. He sat on the edge of the thin mattress and stared at the broken pieces of porcelain under the window. A day or two before or a week or month ago – he felt numb to the passing time – he’d burned his fingers on that same window, testing the spells that Dolohov had put up after that night he had escaped his room.

The door opened. He felt so dead at this point that he did not even look up to see who had come in. “Draco,” came the coolly pleasant voice he had come to know and hate. He showed no reaction. Dolohov moved into his line of vision so that his view of the shattered cup was replaced by black robes. “Draco.” Not so pleasant now. A wand appeared in front of his face and still he showed no response. Dolohov made a sudden swipe against Draco’s cheek, bringing a stinging pain and instantly brought Draco to his feet and reaching for Dolohov who had rapidly moved back. Rowle’s meaty hands grabbed at Draco’s arms from behind and held him in place. Draco kicked out at the grunt who kicked Draco’s feet from under him and slammed him against the floor, his arms held high above his back with Rowle’s heavy weight on his legs, enough pressure to let Draco know that he wasn’t putting his full weight on him but would at provocation. “Your parents have neglected to teach you manners,” Dolohov commented. “Come. We are going to have a family meeting.” Rowle pulled the young man up, pinning his arms behind him and pushing him in the direction Dolohov indicated.

He was led into the hallway, past his mother’s cell to what Draco assumed normally served as a living room except it was bare of any furniture, an unlit fireplace against one wall and a large window facing the doorway, in front of which stood Lucius and Narcissa, who was clutching her husband’s arm. Rowle brought him to the opposite side of the window and carefully let go of him before moving to stand beside Dolohov who had his wand trained on the family. Draco’s gaze swept over his parents, taking in his mother’s skeletal-like frame and his father’s weary face and slumped shoulders. He knew he wasn’t any better off and that knowledge burned in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, hopefully you’ve had a pleasant stay these past months, but I’m sorry to say that we have now come to the close of this chapter of the Malfoy family.” With these words, Draco’s attention was shifted abruptly back to Dolohov who seemed to enjoy the riveted and silent attention of the Malfoys. “With the fortune you have so lovingly bestowed upon your close friend, myself, I will be able to call together the last Dark Wizards and finish the task that the Dark Lord set upon us so many years ago. My first order of business, of course, being to finally kill The-Boy-Who-Won’t-Die. I will make sure that your name is remembered.” His voice took on a dark and furious undertone, the color in his cheeks rising as he continued, “Remembered as traitors to all that we wizards who hold our birthright and blood as sacred.” The wand in his hand started to shake with his pent-up emotion as if the spell he was waiting to cast was trying to burst out the other end. 

“The Malfoys will suffer a tragic and cowardly death, to be mourned by no one—hated by blood traitors and mudbloods, scorned by purebloods. No one will be too surprised to hear that Lucius took Draco’s wand in a fit of anger and killed his son for attempting to defile his family with a mudblood girl and that afterwards he killed himself over guilt, remorse, whatever. No one will really care. It will be in the papers for a day or so and then be relegated to history with the next scandal that arises. And you, pretty Narcissa Black,” the man’s crazed gaze took in the shaking woman, his voice taking on what Draco assumed was to be a gentle tone but came out more predatory, “will restore your family name by my side. But, enough talk, let’s get this over with.”

The next minute happened almost too fast for Draco to register, as he watched Dolohov raise his wand in his direction, mouthing the words of the Killing Curse. His own limbs felt frozen, unable to raise a defense for himself as he faced death with regrets and a life only barely lived. Suddenly, his father’s face appeared in front of him, the older man’s eyes meeting Draco’s as the curse hit him from behind and snapped his head back, long white-blond hair flying, eyes rolling up, his body caught in the grip of separating from his spirit. Draco watched as his father’s body crumpled to the ground revealing Dolohov behind him who stood in shock at Lucius’ last noble action.

Acting on instinct, fueled by grief, hate and anger, Draco called out _“Expelliarmus!_ ” His wand flew out of Dolohov’s hold and into Draco’s who had reached over and gripped his mother. Draco’s silver gaze met Dolohov’s black eyes, his wand raised and his mouth open to curse him. 

And hesitated. 

His thoughts raced. Though this man was responsible for the death of his father and others before him, his own imprisonment for Merlin knew how long, the abuse of his mother and the threatened harm to Hermione, he could not kill him. He wasn’t able to take someone’s life when he was a teenager and he wasn’t able to do it now. Dolohov took note of his hesitation and moved forward. _“Stupefy!”_ Dolohov dropped unconscious. Draco did the same to Rowle and, making sure his hold of his mother was firm, turned on the spot and disapparated. 

He appeared in the middle of the Ministry’s courtyard near the fountain that had once housed a monument to wizard-kind and the lesser creatures of the magical world and where now stood a memorial to Dumbledore. The wizards and witches nearby were shocked by the sudden appearance of a bedraggled man and woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, moving quickly away from the spot they had appeared. Where Draco once may have felt ashamed at appearing in public looking so barbaric, he could not care as he made his way to the entrance, keeping a light but firm hold on his mother. He could make out the security desk and the fair-haired man sitting there start at a witch’s whisper to his ear. The guard got up from his seat and started forward towards Draco who met him just a few meters away from the desk. The wizard’s wand was drawn and pointed at Draco.

“Stop right there!” the man barked out, suspicion evident in his eyes. Draco obliged him, stepping a bit in front of his mother who stood quietly behind him. “Who are you?”

“I’m Draco Malfoy and this is my mother Narcissa. We’ve just escaped from months of imprisonment from a man who thinks he is the next Dark Lord. I’d like to see the Head Auror.” Draco could see that the man didn’t quite believe him, but one couldn’t ignore how unkempt they must look with the undernourished, tired faces and tattered clothing. “Please, just believe me. I’ve got two Death Eaters stupefied in a shack in the middle of nowhere and we’ve got to go back and get them before they come to. Please take me to Harry Potter.” He could hear the desperation in his own voice.

The man wavered but then firmed his chin up. “I’m sorry but Mr. Potter isn’t in today. You will need to fill out some paperwork and his office will get back to you within a day or two.” He seemed to at least think Draco wasn’t a threat and dropped his wand hand as he moved behind his desk to grab a few sheets of paper and a quill. Draco couldn’t believe it. Was he seriously going to have to go through some bureaucratic bullshit so that he could get some help in taking down a maniacal yet dangerous git? He was wasting precious time standing here waiting for basically nothing to happen while Dolohov and Rowle were probably now awake. 

Thinking with only getting his mother safe and Dolohov in the Ministry’s hands, Draco took the only course he felt he could. Bringing his mother forward, he gently pushed her into the startled guard’s hold who dropped the papers he was about to hand to Draco. “You take care of her. Or so help me god, I will make Voldemort look like the bloody Tooth Fairy,” he hissed at the man through clenched teeth. And with that, he turned on the spot and disapparated back to the cabin in the woods.

He immediately noticed that the front door was unhinged as if it had been blasted open. Looking at the surrounding area, he noticed two sets of footprints in the dirt moving out from the building. He silently cursed to himself. Dolohov and Rowle must have woken up while he was dealing with the blasted Ministerial desk security. Cautiously he moved to the open door and silently moved into the front hallway. He looked into the living room his family had been kept in and his heart wrenched, seeing his father’s broken body. He didn’t allow those emotions that nearly engulfed him to break loose, and he moved through the other few rooms to make sure they were empty. The Death Eaters had fled. 

He went back to the living room again to kneel at his father’s side. The stern face was frozen in an expression of— _peace_ wasn’t the right word. No, the word that came to mind was _relief_. As if the man had felt that life was a burden for too long and now that it was lifted off his shoulders he could finally get some rest. Draco bowed his head and touched his hand lightly to Lucius’ unmoving chest, for just a moment. He unhooked his cloak and laid it over the body, promising himself that he would come back once Dolohov was settled, to properly honor his father. He stood up and moved outside.

He surveyed the tracks, noting how they abruptly disappeared in the middle of the yard. He closed his eyes, taking in the quiet of the surrounding woods. It was early afternoon, yet the sounds of life were very few. Having been subject to Dolohov’s insults and ravings for so long, he felt that he had some idea of how the man thought. Draco had escaped with his mother, his father was dead and the only person he might go after to gain power over Draco was— _Merlin—Hermione._

Opening his eyes, he turned on the spot, calling up the image of her bookshop and appeared in the middle of her dark office. Memories of stolen moments in this very space overwhelmed him for a split second as he caught a trace of her cinnamon-vanilla scent. But the urgency of the situation couldn’t be ignored. Doing a quick search through the office and the front of the shop, he didn’t see signs of any struggles or kidnapping. In fact, it looked like she hadn’t come in at all. Pausing a moment in front of the store window, he looked out at the bustling thoroughfare, men and women going about their business without a care in the world as he fought for his own life and the lives of the people he loved. He felt envy.

Taking a deep breath to focus himself, he disapparated to Hermione’s flat, right in front of her door. Thankfully there was no one in the hallway to notice his sudden arrival. Using a spell to open her lock, he allowed the door to fall silently open while keeping his wand at the ready. Her lights were off, her curtains open to the park outside her window, the weak autumn sun filtering in. Not a thing seemed to be disturbed. Her books neatly arranged on her numerous bookshelves on the wall opposite, her various muggle knickknacks sitting peacefully in their spots. Again, instances from their shared past hit him and he had to struggle to keep himself to the task and not collapse. He moved cautiously but quickly through her bedroom and kitchen and then got out of there. He leaned up against the wall just outside her door, his hands against his face, overwhelmed by his need to find her and touch her and assure himself of her existence, that he hadn’t imagined their months together, that it had not all just been his imagination run wild while imprisoned. He didn’t know where to go now. He felt that trying to find her at her parents, the Potters’, the Weasleys’, Diagon Alley…the list was endless and would just waste so much time. For all he knew, Dolohov _did_ have her. His breath shortened and he suddenly felt he was struggling for his next lungful of air. He knew he was starting to panic but he couldn’t help it.

He straightened and concentrated on taking deeper breaths. For Merlin’s sake, he was a Malfoy and a Malfoy _always_ got what he wanted. Pulling himself together, he took the rolling emotions he had connected to Hermione and centered it on the need to find her. He’d never tried this before, and he didn’t know if it would work or even if he would survive it but he couldn’t let more time pass. He turned on the spot, feeling the familiar sensation of being twisted and pulled through a too-small tube. The feeling dissipated and his feet landed on solid ground. He didn’t open his eyes yet, just wanting to make sure that he had arrived all in one piece. Not feeling any different, he warily opened his eyes.

He was standing in front of a large set of wooden doors. He looked around. The foyer he was in was empty of any people, white flowers in abundance near the various settees and benches, a rich rug beneath his feet covering the stone floor. It looked to be a chapel. His attention moved back to the doors, a forbidding feeling settling in his stomach. Slowly, he inched one of the doors open and took in the crowded seats on one side of the room. He heard a man’s gentle voice, “If there is anyone who would object to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.” This was a wedding obviously. The question being: whose? 

That feeling in his stomach grew teeth and started gnawing at his insides. Moving the door open, his gaze moved to the front of the large room and to the raised steps where he could make out the tall, lanky form of a red-haired man. As if to confirm his suspicion, the officiator stated, “Ronald Bilius Weasley, repeat after me—“ and was interrupted by the sound of the door slamming open. Draco’s eyes had moved to the bride, taking in the beautiful brunette whom he had lived and breathed and survived hell for and promptly lost his grip on the heavy door. The words were out of his mouth before he was consciously aware of them. 

“I object.”


	5. Choices

That he made an entrance was an understatement. He heard the whispers, the gasps, but couldn’t pay attention to that now. She was here, getting married _._ To someone else. He knew he shouldn’t feel angry or hurt. What did he expect after his cruel note and no word from him afterwards. He moved slowly down the aisle until he stood in front of her, not touching, just looking. She had tears in her eyes and he could feel a prickle at the back of his own. “Draco,” she whispered. He couldn’t speak. Were those tears of happiness?

Weasley pushed his way between them, breaking the moment. “I can’t believe you’re just showing up like this,” he hissed between his teeth, standing defensively in front of Hermione. Draco’s eyes went hard and cold staring back, almost forgetting why he had rushed recklessly to find her, until a calm voice broke through the tension.

“Ron. Draco. I don’t think this is the time and place to do this.” Harry Potter had joined the edgy tableau, gently taking Hermione’s arm, to comfort her. Or restrain her. But he was right. The other witches and wizards were on their feet, getting more excitement than had been expected from this wedding. Draco recalled the reason for his sudden appearance and broke the stare with the red-haired man, meeting Harry’s serious gaze.

“Harry, I need your help.” Harry’s eyes widened at the sincere and almost pleading tone of Draco’s voice, and he really looked at the man in front of him, taking in his obvious disheveled appearance and lean figure and something subtly changed about the Head Auror, becoming more alert and on the edge of breaking into sudden action. 

“All right. Let’s go to the Ministry.” Draco was relieved that he was willing to listen to him right away. He looked at Hermione, standing stiffly at Harry’s side, her eyes avoiding Draco’s, her wedding dress a glaring rejection in front of him and he felt his heart tearing. She was marrying another man. But it wouldn’t happen right now. She was still in danger and he was damned if he was going to let her out of his sight until Dolohov was safely in the hands of the Aurors.

He looked at Harry again. “Hermione will have to come as well.”

“Bullocks!” came the immediate response from Weasley. Harry held up a hand as his friend made a movement towards Draco.

“Ron, I understand, but judging from Draco’s surprising reappearance and the implied threat towards Hermione’s safety, we need to get all the data fast and now. We’ll meet you at the Ministry.” And with that, Harry disapparated with Hermione. After giving Draco another look, Weasley followed suit. Draco could see familiar redheads taking control of the wedding attendees and disapparated to the Ministry, only to appear in the middle of chaos.

People were screaming, running away from a fight that was occurring near the security wizard’s desk. Draco caught sight of Dolohov’s malevolent face and, his breath caught, as he saw his mother’s pale figure caught in Dolohov’s hold while he fought off Harry and Weasley; the security wizard lying still near his feet. Draco pushed through the tide of people, frantic to get to them before his mother was hurt. Dolohov looked away from the two and spotted the man he was determined to bring down to his knees. He flung a curse in the younger man’s direction. Draco twisted to the side and the curse flew by, barely missing him. He caught himself before he fell to the ground and watched as Dolohov disappeared with his mother.

“Shit!” The word was out of his mouth before he could think. He met up with the two men who had been fighting Dolohov just as Hermione came out from behind a pillar. “What the hell happened? Where the f--- are all your bloody Aurors?” Draco was pissed refusing to give in to the grief and apathy that would incapacitate him. Weasley’s face, already red from the exertion of the fight turned a darker shade, wanting to get back at Malfoy with his own fiery temper but again was stayed by a calming hand of Harry.

“He killed this man just as we got here and had a hold of your mother before we could do anything more than raise our wands.” His dark head bowed, taking in the lifeless wizard on the floor. “He was trying to get to Hermione until you came. Who was that, Draco? He looked like…Dolohov.” 

Draco nodded in confirmation, mouth grim. He glanced down at the dead man. A piece of parchment under the man’s head stuck out. He bent down to carefully pick it up and saw that it was addressed to him. _“Go back to where it started. Alone.”_ Instantly, Draco knew it was from Dolohov and it was meant for him. Repeating the message in his head, he realized that the Death Eater was talking about Malfoy Manor. Merlin knew what would happen to his mother if he delayed. He could feel panic working its way through his chest. He turned to Harry, running a hand through his hair, restraining himself from exploding. “Look. Dolohov is absolutely mad. He plans on being the next Dark Lord and he needs to kill me to ensure he inherits the Malfoy millions and can carry out his plans. Then, he’s going to go after you. But for the moment, he has my mother and I’ve got to get her back safe.” He waved the paper in front of Harry’s face. “This is from Dolohov. He says to go alone.”

Harry immediately protested. “That would be complete idiocy! You can’t go alone. We’ll take a team.”

“That will take too much time to get together. My _mother_ could be dead by then! I’m not going to waste another minute arguing about this, Potter. I’m going.” Draco made a motion to disapparate.

“Wait!” Harry stopped him. Draco looked at him, catching sight of the shining hair that was Hermione who had moved up next to Harry. He immediately tried to ignore the woman’s presence. Some inner part of him wondered if she was happy with Ron. “I’ll go with you,” Harry said, pulling Draco’s attention back to the very urgent situation at hand.

“No, you can’t go, Harry! Didn’t you hear what Malfoy said? Dolohov will do all he can to kill you once he’s offed Malfoy!” This encouraging statement was from Weasley. “I’m coming with you.”

“Well, if you boys are going, then I’m going, too,” Hermione added defiantly, her hands on her hips. All three men turned to stare at her. “What? I’m not going to let my fiancé and best friend run headlong into a dodgy situation and not go with them. You know you’ll need me.” Her look determinedly avoided including Draco in this statement. He knew she still didn’t know why he had disappeared so abruptly but all the same, it felt like a blow to his stomach.

“Fine, whatever,” he strove for his cool and distant manner, ignoring the need to pull Hermione into his arms and remind her who she belonged with, “but I have to go in first and get my mother from him, then you’ll come in from behind. I’m not sure where he’s holding her. Most likely in the sitting room but you cannot reveal your presence until I’ve got her because otherwise he’ll kill her.” He made sure that this was understood. The plan wasn’t fully thought out but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He looked at each of them in turn, trying not to glare at Weasley as he shifted closer to Hermione. She wasn’t his anymore it seemed and felt something rip open inside him. His fists balled up, just barely checking himself from decking the red-haired git. Harry’s gaze caught Draco’s and he was unsettled to see a flash of compassion in his childhood enemy’s emerald eyes. He nodded jerkily at Harry. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

*

Draco appeared in front of the tall gates before the Manor. The hedges surrounding the property had grown out of their stately neatness from lack of care. The whole place had the air of abandonment. He had two minutes before Potter and the others came in after him so he moved on ahead, passing soundlessly through the gates and up the unlit path to the Manor itself. He walked quickly watching his surroundings. The shadows settled in as the sun made ready to set. The very air seemed ominous and threatening.

Once at the door, he paused a moment, straining to hear anything then slowly edged the heavy wooden door open, entering cautiously, wand first, into the darkened foyer. A fine layer of dust covered the floor and furniture. He caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his left eye and shifted quickly, wand raised, and swallowed the spell he had been about to utter as he realized it was his reflection in a mirror. He saw that the sitting room door was slightly ajar and on silent feet, he made his way towards it. 

There were no sounds coming from the room and he pushed on the door, letting it swing open on its own, leaving both his hands free. Narcissa sat on the same couch she had been on almost a year ago, bound and gagged, her eyes widening at the sight of Draco in the doorway. His gaze swept the room but it was empty. He moved swiftly to her side, getting to work on loosening the ropes on her. Just as the last bind was about to fall away from her, Draco heard the sound of a throat being cleared behind him.

He froze then slowly straightened, changing his grip on his wand as he turned to face Dolohov’s sinister smirk and his own raised wand. “So efficient, Draco, but you are going to need to step away from her.”

Draco could barely contain his urge to strike out at him. That oily pleasant voice, those cold obsidian eyes, this soulless demon had been his tormentor for far too long and oh how he wanted to cause the man some pain. Then, Dolohov stepped out from the doorway to expose who was standing behind him and Draco’s insides clenched and twisted, his grip tightened spasmodically on his wand. He could feel the blood drain from his face as Hermione was brought slowly into the room, held captive by Rowle’s arm, her head stretched back to reveal her slim creamy throat and a blade held so close to it that a drop of blood lazily trickled down. Dolohov was watching Draco with one eye, while his wand pointed at the petite woman who couldn’t even speak without digging the blade further into her skin. “I’ll kill her Draco if you don’t step away from your mother. Now!” Dolohov barked out when Draco failed to move fast enough. His mother whimpered on the couch, too frightened to do anything.

Draco moved towards the fireplace, still unable to tear his gaze away from the nightmare image of Hermione and that knife and that drop of blood still slowly moving down towards that white wedding dress, meant to represent purity; about to be stained with fear, anguish and pain.

Dolohov’s smirk became a triumphant grin as he tasted, at last, victory. “You always had it too easy, with your money and your aristocratic bloodlines. Your family betrayed the Dark Lord and then were forgiven. Yet even with his forgiveness, you betrayed him in the end. Now, who knows what the Malfoys are? _I_ know that you are cowards and traitors. Always looking out for yourselves. _I_ , a true believer and follower of the master’s dictates, will carry through the mission of cleansing the wizarding world of impurities!” His ecstasy over this was evident on his face as his dark frame shook with his impassioned speech. 

Then those cold, hard eyes were focused on Draco and the next moment stretched into infinity as time slowed and Draco watched Dolohov once again raise his wand to utter the Killing Curse. Mind and limbs still in shock at the frightening possibility of Hermione’s death, he reacted a split second too late.

 _“Protego!”_ A familiar voice called out. A Shielding Charm slammed into existence in front of Draco, knocking him flat and the curse rebounded and blasted into the fireplace mantel, shards of marble flying out. Draco turned his head and caught sight of Ron Weasley running into the room followed closely behind by Harry, the redhead going for Narcissa on the couch and throwing spells in Dolohov’s direction; Harry went for Hermione and Rowle, catching the surprised man from behind, pulling the bigger man’s arm away from her, causing the knife to fall.

Ron had reached Narcissa and was trying to calm her as she fought against him, weakly but determinedly, not understanding that he was trying to help her. Draco saw that Dolohov’s attention had swung to the struggle between Rowle and Harry who stunned the servant and caught Hermione in his arms as she fainted, dropping his wand in the process. Dolohov, in spotting the man who defeated the Dark Lord, saw his own chance of immediate greatness and pointed his wand at the black-haired man who struggled to balance the weight of his childhood friend and find his wand by touch and once again faced down death. 

The room was a sudden vacuum as all of Draco’s focus centered on the evil and unholy monster who was about to kill Harry, taking Hermione out in the blast. And Draco felt that earlier hesitation, that misguided sense of humanity and compassion towards this creature burn away in the fire of his fierce and instinctive reaction to protect her whom he put above all others, including himself.

 _“Avada Kedavra!”_ The words had left him, the spell had been cast. His wand pointed at Dolohov without consciously knowing how it got there. Dolohov’s body flew up and hit the wall opposite, his astonishment unmistakable on his face as he died. He’d marked Draco as a coward, incapable of defending those he cared for. The others in the room had frozen. Draco’s eyes sought Hermione and collided with Harry’s stunned stare.


	6. Absolution

He had just killed someone. His eyes slid away from the Head Auror’s whose initial shock had been covered by an opaque mask, hiding the man’s thoughts of what had just occurred. Draco’s attention shifted to his hands and wand from which the Killing Curse had been issued. He had done it. A tendril of guilt wound its way into the center of his chest. He didn’t know why he was feeling this way now. He had had complete justification in taking the bastard out. And though he ran through all the reasons in his mind, the pressure in his chest and eyes increased to an almost unbearable point. His eyes determinedly avoided the still and lifeless form against the wall.

A woman’s high wailing cut through the silence and Draco’s attention was diverted. His mother was still refusing to let Ron near her, fighting him with whatever energy she had left, screaming and crying. Draco pushed through his sudden inertia and moved to her. Ron stepped aside as he approached. Narcissa recognizing Draco, threw her arms around him and quieted but wouldn’t stop crying. As she sobbed against him, Draco found himself in the position of bringing comfort to the woman who had been sparing in the only kindness and love he had known in his childhood. 

After a few moments where only Narcissa’s sobs could be heard, he saw Hermione regain consciousness and sit up in Harry’s arms. She was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes closed, exhausted and in shock. Draco looked away, his throat contracting. He was a killer. What would she think? The pressure around his head was back and his arms tightened on his mother, as if that would be enough to counteract the horror that had become his life.

“We should get going. I’ve got a team here cleaning up the mess we left outside and they’ll come in here to…wrap everything up,” Harry put delicately. “I want everyone to get looked over at St. Mungo’s especially you and your mother, Draco,” he indicated the white-blond family, “then to the Ministry as I will need to report up on this tonight, unfortunately.” Draco looked at Harry’s face, unreadable except for the hint of compassion that seemed to always be present with the Savior of the Wizarding World. He nodded tiredly in agreement and stood up, picking his mother up bodily and cradling her birdlike weight carefully. Draco couldn’t help sending a concerned glance at Hermione who had her long curls covering her face as she leaned against Harry who had an arm around her waist, supporting her as they stood up. 

The group Disapparated to St. Mungo’s, entering from the wizarding side and were swept up by the Healers who immediately jumped into action upon realizing it was Harry Potter and the rest of the Golden Trio _and_ the Malfoys who had entered their domain. Narcissa wouldn’t let go of Draco so he went with her and one of the Healers into a room in the Emergency Ward as the others were latched onto by other Healers. 

The Healer’s soothing voice and quiet motions were effective in getting Narcissa to tentatively drop her guard and allow the Healer to look her over. The skinny Healer took in how little weight the fragile woman had, the lank hair, the dark circles under her eyes, the minor tremors running through the thin pale hands. She turned away from the cot and Draco saw the troubled look in her eyes which cleared as she paused next to Draco on her way out. “She just needs lots of rest, nutrition and peace. I’m getting a potion right now to help her healing process and allow her to sleep.” She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She will be all right,” the woman assured him in a soft calm tone.

After more than a year of imprisonment, under stress and constant anxiety over his and his parents’ lives, losing his father and nearly losing everything he held dear, this one kind reassurance from a complete stranger was enough to bring that burning feeling of tears to the back of his eyes. Keeping himself in check, he gave her a small strained smile of thanks. She pretended not to notice his watery eyes, which Draco was grateful for, and patted his shoulder before moving out to get the potion. 

His mother was lying on the cot, arms folded across her stomach, eyes closed, her expression still restless. He stood by the bed, looking down on her, just wanting to let her know that he was near. The Healer came back and got Narcissa to take the drink. His mother’s face visibly eased and she was able to go to sleep.

The Healer’s stern gaze moved over Draco and she directed him to the bed next to his mother’s, pulling a private curtain around Narcissa’s bed so she would be undisturbed. He sat on the indicated bed and the Healer looked at him with a critical eye, noting his own thin frame and the harsher angles to his features. “Thank Merlin, you’re young,” the Healer exclaimed, “else I’d be checking you in. Here, take this.” She handed him a cup that seemed to contain the same potion she’d given his mother. “You need to rest as well.” 

Draco reached for the cup, wanting a bit of oblivion when Harry’s voice broke in. “I’m sorry, Healer, but I can’t have Draco knocked out quite this moment.” At the sound of his voice, the woman had jerked the cup back and her eyes had taken a bit of an awestruck sheen and she nodded with much deference. “If you could give us a moment?” The Healer stammered out an affirmative before moving out of the room past him.

Draco was slightly amused by this exchange and had a small smile on his face as he watched Harry move a chair to his bed so he could sit facing him. The smile faded as Harry looked at him with a serious expression. He stiffened, anticipating a pronouncement of charges against him for the death of his captor.

“We need to talk about you killing Dolohov,” Harry started in the direct manner he was known for. “I’ve just been with the Minister, giving him the basic gist of what happened today, minus all the details of where you and Narcissa have been as I barely know anything. 

“Now, per general Wizengamot law I would take you into custody now and you would wait at Azkaban to be called before a trial to be held accountable for the death of another Wizard.” Harry stood up and Draco automatically flinched back, willing to take responsibility for his actions but not very willing to go to a place which used Dementors to hold the population in line. 

Harry gave a humorless snort though there was a gleam of mischief in his eyes, as he turned to pace in front of Draco. “Draco, I’m not going to arrest you. While I may not know what happened to your family in the past year, I only have to look at you and your mother to know that you weren’t on vacation.” Draco relaxed. Slightly. “Shacklebolt and I found a loophole: ‘ _In cases where a Wizard kills a Dark Wizard in self defense as witnessed by a government agent, said Wizard need only be held accountable for his actions as determined by the Minister of Magic or a Head of a Ministerial Department as deputized by the Minister._ ’”

Draco didn’t know what to say, what to think. He wasn’t sure he understood Harry correctly. “What does that mean? I’m not going to be punished? Even though I took someone’s life?” That pressure on his chest was back again and he unconsciously brought a hand up to rub at it, ease it somehow. Harry’s gaze was compassionate as he took a seat again.

“Believe me, Draco, I understand what you are going through right now. I was very young when I defeated Voldemort and I still live with that every day.” His eyes had taken on a far away look. “There was a saying I heard when I still thought myself alone in the world and knew nothing of who I actually was: _‘There is a time for everything.’_ It’s something I’ve kept in mind. And while these are just words I am giving you, I’m still going to say it, in case you can find some help from them. It will heal, Draco,” Harry leaned forward, intent on imparting his next statement. “But only if you _do_ something with your life to make sure that people like Dolohov and situations like yours don’t happen again. I’ve already gone over it with the Minister and he thinks it is a good idea. I think you should become an Auror.”

He wasn’t sure he had heard Harry correctly. He certainly hadn’t expected that. “Is that my sentence? If I don’t become an Auror, will you drag me to Azkaban?”

Harry was vehement in his response. “No, of course not! Stop being so Slytherin about it and take a more objective look. You’ve got the instincts and somewhere along the line, Merlin knows how, you’ve developed the heart for it. And while tonight’s fight did not end how I would have it, your obvious torment over it shows me that you at least aren’t a cold-blooded killer.” Harry had gotten up to pace and now turned to face Draco directly. “Draco, give it some thought. I think you would find a sense of purpose in the work, a way to clear some dark spots in your life.”

He met the bright green eyes of his childhood enemy and considered it. Harry himself took a moment to look at the man who had changed so much from the bully he had known, and he appreciated the changes that experience wrought on a person. After a few moments, Draco took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

 

It was a couple hours after the Manor incident when they all met up at Harry’s office in the Auror Department. Narcissa had been left behind at St. Mungo’s and Harry and Draco had Disapparated to the Ministry to meet up with Ron and Hermione. Draco hadn’t seen Hermione since she was briefly with the healers and then brought to Harry’s office to rest. Then he walked into Harry’s office and saw her. She was on the small couch near the fireplace, her head on Ron’s shoulder who was holding her close with one arm. Her face was at rest, eyes shut to get some sleep. Draco noted that Ron had one of her hands clasped with his on his lap. 

Bloody hell, that hurt. Physically, emotionally and spiritually—though he showed no reaction to the sight as he moved to the opposite end of the office, near the window magicked with a view of the London evening traffic. Ron gently nudged Hermione awake and she sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as Harry moved to lean against his desk. 

“I’ll fill you in on what happened on our end at the Manor, Draco, and then I’d like to hear your story,” Harry said. Draco nodded, his eyes remaining on the scenes playing before him in the window, his profile to Harry, his back to Hermione and Ron. He couldn’t look at them. 

Harry informed Draco of how he, Ron and Hermione had gotten separated at the Manor. There had been an ambush of Death Eaters waiting for them when they appeared, with Rowle grabbing Hermione from behind. He and Ron had managed to put out of commission all five of the rest but they still only arrived just in time to where Dolohov and Draco had been. After the confrontation, Harry had called his Aurors to gather the dark wizards up before they regained consciousness.

Draco had slowly turned away from the window though he was still not actually looking at the two on the couch, just seeing them in his peripheral vision. Harry looked at Draco steadily once he’d finished his explanation. “If you could start from the moment you disappeared from Hermione’s life.” 

Draco saw Hermione flinch, her golden brown eyes darkening with pain. He watched as Ron brought his other hand to cover their already clasped hands, an automatic comforting gesture. He saw how she relaxed at Ron’s touch. Draco felt something break inside as he realized that she had moved on from him and the best thing for him to do would be to let her go. She had been nearly killed because of who he was, what he was. Her life and her happiness were more important to him.

And so, he relayed his whole story, the abuses that his family had suffered, the endless days of nothing, his father’s death and their escape; he did not mention one word of the one reason he had endured such atrocities, the one hope that had kept him alive during that time. He stamped down on any gesture or statement that would betray his agony and grief over losing her. 

Yet, the two other men in the room, the ones who had been there when she had suffered over Draco’s disappearance, who had been the ones to comfort and help her through that horrible time, read between the lines of what Draco was saying, could hear what he was trying to hold back and they took note of it and empathized. One because his compassion for others had only grown deeper in his work for the Ministry; the other—the man who would have called her his wife after today—because his own love for the same woman was something that had grown and matured with the years. This fiery-haired man understood love and suffering and he was humbled, not by what he heard, but by what he perceived in the pale-haired man’s depth of feeling as he shared his story, standing stiffly in front of Harry.

Once the telling of the tale was finished, there was silence in the room. And in that quiet, Hermione felt something heal inside herself. That rift that had been torn open when he had disappeared from her life came together once more. Although the explanation of his disappearance was a terrible and horrifying thing, just knowing it wasn’t necessarily of his own free will that he had left her gave her a sense of peace.

“Thank you, Draco,” Harry said, his voice holding a new thread of respect. “I think we should get ourselves some sleep. I’ll put together the report for the Minister. Please come back at ten tomorrow morning as we will still have more ends to fully tie up.” 

Draco, Hermione and Ron nodded in agreement with Harry and exited the office as Harry moved around his desk to take a seat. The three paused in the outer office, the secretarial desk vacated for the day. Draco stood just out of reach of the young woman, not bearing being apart from her when she was finally so close, but also knowing she was not his to touch or to be with any longer. With an unreadable look at her and a short nod to Ron, he strode to the outer door and stepped out without another word.


	7. The Right Thing

She did not move. Could not move. There was a part of her that screamed and shook at the bars around her heart to _do_ something, to not let him leave again; while there was another part that could not act, could not reconcile her need for him and her promise to another. As was always the case with Draco, her normally infallible logic, her sharp intelligence failed her where only instinct could lead. 

She was torn but unwilling to dishonor her longtime friend and the vows she would have said today. She knew now that Draco hadn’t meant to leave her so abruptly and callously but he also hadn’t made any mention or indication of anything during his report to Harry that would show that he still had any deep feeling for her or of any intention to marry her. 

Determined to do the right thing, she turned away from the door and met the clear-eyed gaze of the man who had stood by her at the altar just hours ago. A wordless communication passed between them; the sort that only happens with those who have lived, loved and lost much together. Her eyes, which had been painfully dry, suddenly filled, a tear escaping and slowly making its way down her cheek. She took a shuddering breath, not quite sure what he meant in that look, and whispered his name: “Ron.” 

So many thoughts laid under the soft sound, so many questions, arguments, apologies, but he answered all of them with one word as he stepped closer and laid a gentle hand on her cheek, wiping away the single tear, ocean blue meeting honey brown. “Go.” 

She didn’t remember getting out of the Ministry, she just remembered running, running in that white wedding dress, dark hair flying behind her, long ago giving up any semblance of order, her slippers hitting the stones of the courtyard. So many bodies pressing against each other, trying to finish their day despite previous interruptions, ignorant of the drama that was playing out before them, oblivious to one woman’s need to find a certain man. 

She pushed her way through the crowd to the exits and saw him just as he was about to step up to one. “Draco!” she shouted, hoping against hope that he would hear her in the cavernous space. 

His head moved and his sad and weary eyes caught sight of her, brilliant against the somber sea of the departing witches and wizards of the Ministry. The image was seared into his mind and he was staggered by it. She was coming after him. 

He turned, heart beating madly in his throat, and started making his own way toward her, his pace increasing as they moved closer and closer to each other until finally, finally she was in front of him, in his arms. His face was in her hair, breathing her in, holding her tight, letting her know without words he was never going to let her go. The other pedestrians had moved away from them, giving them room, a few watching the exchange, curiosity getting them.

She pulled back a bit, tears in her glorious eyes. And hit him on the shoulder. “Merlin, Malfoy, you bastard. Don’t you ever walk away from me again! I love you! I can’t believe you didn’t say anything back there. I don’t know what the bloody hell you think a relationship is but—“ His lips caught hers in a sweet soft kiss, more of a brush of skin against skin but it was enough to silence her as everything within her zeroed in on that one contact point. He just stayed there, eyes closed, lips touching, savoring the feeling of her, of them, once more.

He opened his eyes to meet hers. His voice was low and serious as he told her, “Hermione. I love you. With everything I am. You are the only reason I am still alive today. _You_ kept me alive all those months. Just the promise, the possibility of seeing you again was all I had to pull myself through.” She was shaken. She had doubted him during the time he had been imprisoned and he had been hanging onto their love as his beacon of hope. She hugged him tighter and he brought his head down to hers again, taking in her warmth. 

A sudden thought hit him and he pulled back a bit, bringing her chin up to meet his eyes. “I am kicking myself as I’m saying this, but what about Weas—Ron?” The guy had acted decently, Draco figured he should give him a break.

Her smile was bittersweet. “Ron, he—“ she hesitated, not sure how to describe what had passed between them, “he understands. He was there, you know, when you disappeared. When it was hard for me.” It was an understatement and he seemed to get that; his guilt evident in his expression. She brought her small hands up to frame his face. “But I understand now and I hate that you had to go through that. But just knowing that you are alive and here brings peace to a time that I thought I would always hurt over.” 

He leaned his forehead against hers, both taking comfort from the other’s presence, ignoring the small audience that had now formed around them.

“Hermione,” he started hesitantly after a few moments, moving back a little. She looked up at him, eyes shiny and bright. He just looked at her, almost forgetting what he was going to say, enjoying just being able to have her there. Her mouth started to tremble then formed into a wide smile, unable to contain her happiness. He could feel the same giddy look coming over him and he had to ask again. “Will you marry me?” 

She pulled his head down to hers, so that his lips were brushing against hers as she whispered her answer, “Yes.” And kissed him with all the love she had.


	8. Epilogue

We come now to a scene which is both familiar yet essentially different. A wedding is taking place, not in a church but in the home of one of the most prominent wizards of all time for one of the closest friends to his heart. 

The bride is not dressed in virginal white as in looking at her, one can see that this color does not fit the circumstances. Instead, she is dressed in a warm lavender gown, that sets off her chocolate hair and is loose enough to accommodate her growing belly. She is glowing, her lips curve in a happy smile, her eyes sparkle. 

And as she walks down that short aisle, surrounded by close family and friends, she cannot take her eyes off the golden-haired groom who awaits her at the end. His eyes are also equally entranced, the silver deepening to steel gray with emotion. There is no hesitation in her footsteps as she approaches him, no painful memories to mar the occasion. 

As Hermione’s father places her hand in Draco’s their world is complete, the present a bright reality and the future a beautiful stretch before them.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story. It was the first multi-chaptered story I ever finished and thus holds a special place in my heart.


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